


Zero to Sixty

by modillian



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Music RPF
Genre: Crack, Explicit Language, F/M, Pegging, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modillian/pseuds/modillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rihanna grins back a little scarily, fishes her glasses out of the fountain and drawls, "Yeah, don't mess with us girls, Joe. We will fuck. you. up," pausing to flick water off her fingers at him. She stands and walks away.</p>
<p>"Yup, definitely," Joe says to her retreating back, leaning back on his heels, arm still clutched to his chest. Joe is absolutely not looking at her damp legs, wet hem, her ass before she turns the corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zero to Sixty

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimercakes for all, I have no idea what actually happened around in the VMAs, nothing here is true, yadda yadda.  
> [Shut Up and Drive -MTV Video Music Awards 2007](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN_VVwzKI5A)  
> 

 

 

_You look like you can handle what's under my hood.  
You keep saying that you will, boy I wish you would._  


 

 

The music awards? That was pretty awesome. Joe likes performing even when it's rearranged and prearranged and the crowd is carefully monitored. MTV is kind of an OCD micromanagement bastard like that. It was good to play somewhere stationary and not in close quarters, since Joe was going to strangle Pete if he didn't stop cracking into Joe's Twizzler stash, for fuck's sake.

But performing is always good. The preshow was kind of weird to take though.

***

Andy calls two nights before the show. They are already in the hotel close by where all the other invitees are stationed as well. Joe keeps unexpectedly running into fabulous people in the halls. Except for Fall Out Boy; they're all chilling in their rooms, because _yes_ , there are real bedrooms. Joe means to enjoy his for every possible minute, even if it means rolling up in comforters and talking to Andy on his cell instead of going to see him in the next floor up.

"We're performing _where_?" Joe says. Joe is unamused. Andy sounds unruffled even through the tinny cellphone.

"A hotel suite. It's supposed to have atmosphere, like a house party. To set an officious tone for an official awards show."

"Uh-huh," Joe says. "Who the hell comes up with this shit Andy."

"People on better drugs than usual. I hope it wasn't John Norris, he gives me hives."

Joe would not put it past him. Joe can almost see a hivey John Norris chasing Andy down. It kind of creeps him out. He doesn't think the image is a product of smoking.

Joe eschews the comfortable bed to escape the specter of MTV VJs. He picks a random floor on the elevator and catches the view on the twenty-fourth floor. There's a big abandoned lobby up there to adjoin some convention center room. It's all fancy with waterworks in the walls and a fountain in the center. He can tell there's a view of the city in the convention room, as per the NO TRESPASSING sign, so he decides to trespass in the room and piddles around for a while. It's nice to wander around someplace that isn't a moving vehicle or a concert arena. He taps on all the empty water glasses, puts his feet on the shiny coffee tables, scuffs his shoes along the velva-sheen carpet.

After the twinkling city lights and trespassing gets boring he leaves for the lobby.

He sees a girl, short, ("Everyone's short to you, shut up," Pete's said), leaning over the fountain. She's wearing a corduroy hat and black sunglasses, standing with one brown leg in the fountain and one out, hands bunched in her skirt. Joe stops at the doorway. He recognizes her.

***

"I'm Rihanna," says Rihanna-the-singer when they first meet. Then she says, "What the hell is he doing?" and waves in Pete's direction. Joe is tuning his guitar and sitting on a kidnapped amp. He twists around to see the back of the studio. Pete is, he is...

"Actually, most of the time no one knows what Pete's doing," Joe says. Pete appears to be doing the Wizard of Oz munchkin dance. They're in a studio to lay down last-minute backing tracks to the Video Music Awards collaboration. Pete is behaving himself, relatively. He hasn't broken anything.

She doesn't look impressed. "Uh, he's not gonna be dancing at our show, right?" she asks and waves a hand over there. Um, wow, Pete's really flexible.

"You never know," Joe says, and smiles at her. She glances back to Joe and cracks a grin.

Eh, maybe she was just grumpy. She'd been repeating, "if you can baby boy than we can go all night" for an hour because the recording equipment kept fucking up. She's sweating and her eye makeup is smudged.

"Nice to meet you. Your name is?"

"Oh. Um, hi. I'm Joe." He holds out a hand and Rihanna clasps a firm grip. She has trimmed scritching nails.

A few hours later they leave the studio and that is that.

***

"Hi," Joe says to Rihanna. She jumps and catches herself hands-first into the fountain pool.

Um, whoops. Joe goes over to help her out. Rihanna steadies, sunglasses gone, looking up incredulous behind wet sleeves.

Oh shit. Joe's breath stutters. _Of course_ you're supposed to piss off your collaborator the day before the performance. Er.

Then she starts to laugh.

Um, what? "I, sorry! I didn't mean to make you, er, nosedive." She's still giggling, straightening up. Joe takes her elbow and helps her step out. She's wearing some nice, floaty dress and now it's water-stained. Joe's face gets warm and he stammers out something, he had no idea what.

Rihanna makes a "what the hell" face at him, eyebrows tilted, and turns around to sit on a dry part of the fountain rim. She puts on her sandals. "I should have known _something_ would happen," she says, voice dipping husky and still chuckling. Something rumbles along Joe's chest in response. "The rest of this place is filled with people."

He looks at her sideways. "Yeah, I usually try to keep my fountain-diving on the downlow."

Rihanna shakes out her hair and keeps a straight face. Joe coughs, sees her wet front, remembers to be embarrassed all over again, and goes on, "But yeah, this place is crazy, right? I mean, it's going to be dead the day after the show, but preshow is always bananas."

"Oh god, yes. I guess your shows are always a panic too? I haven't really...wait. Bananas?"

Joe flushes hotter. "Um. Yes. This shit is bananas."

She's looking up, squinting; bunched up cheeks, skin looking soft, the defined curve of her neck. Then she pinches his arm.

"Hey, ow." Joe shies away, exaggerated mock-hurt and clutching his forearm to his chest. It did hurt. She giggles, "That's what you get for surprising me."

He half-shuffles away, grins. "I should have known. Girls and their clothes, gosh."

Rihanna grins back a little scarily, fishes her glasses out of the fountain and drawls, "Yeah, don't mess with us girls, Joe. We will fuck. you. up," pausing to flick water off her fingers at him. She stands and walks away.

"Yup, definitely," Joe says to her retreating back, leaning back on his heels, arm still clutched to his chest. Joe is absolutely not looking at her damp legs, wet hem, her ass before she turns the corner.

***

The rehearsal is ridiculously early the next day. The blood is rushing to his feet and head, and Joe stumbles around probably looking like a bobble-head doll. He can't be sure, due to the headrush blur, but a vaguely woman-shaped blob is walking towards him. He rubs his eyes and blinks.

"Hi," she says. Joe can barely see under his bangs. Rihanna hands over a coffee cup. She's wearing a stretched-out pink tee with DORA DORA THE EXPLORER glittering on it. That's pretty cool, he's gotta admit.

"Hi. Um. Thanks," he says. He takes the cup from Rihanna and slurps it. She brushes back her hair and shrugs.

"Had a rough time last night?"

"Nah, nothing like that. It's just the regular weird preshow stuff." Except that Pete and Patrick are obviously not to be trusted with Joe's secret stash of junk food, hotel or no, the fuckers. He'll plan something to one-up them soon enough after the awards show. Something's sure to come up. He sips more coffee and hums, tasting the crap instant-brew this time around, and shakes his bangs aside to see more clearly.

"Are we ready to do this thing or what?" Pete shouts off to the side. The skeleton crew around them mumbles and Joe salutes his coffee cup.

Rihanna dusts her hands on her jeans and steps away from Joe, to center stage. She fiddles around, plugs in the wires to her handsfree mike. A squeak and white static buzz through the speakers. "Are we ready?" Rihanna asks, smooth voice emanating around the room. She stands at an angle, arm cocked, head tilted back.

"Yes ma'am," Joe says behind her, and her eyes flit back to him. She's smirking.

***

So yeah, the MTV show itself went pretty well. Joe knows how to work an audience, baby, and don't you forget it. Patrick may have had nervy or booze-related singing problems, but Joe's trusty guitar and trusty guitar-fingers have yet to give out on him.

After the music awards, now _that_ -that was spectacular.

***

The stack of boxes crashes right over, Pete barreling on full-speed. "We are the champions, motherfuckers!" he shouts and trips over Joe to tackle Andy.

That's how Joe winds up on his ass, covered in tinsel (boxes full of tinsel backstage? What the fuck.) "Thanks a lot Pete," he yells and tries to unstick himself. Andy makes faces attempting to escape manhandling while Pete grins on. A crowd passes them by in the hall, and Bill and Travis detach themselves from it. Bill is beaming and clutching Travis' hips. They extract Andy from Pete, then Patrick hugs Bill, who squeaks and jumps.

Joe is about to call something out when Bill finally sees him and laughs, "Nice look for you!" Joe throws tinsel at his head. Bill laughs more and Pete starts for the exit. He catcalls and gestures ridiculously, "Come on, let us exit stage right and get fucked up." Travis murmurs something, kind of swaying already and Bill adds a smug, "Yeah, that too."

Bill kind of magnetizes the group forward and they do in fact leave stage right. Weird.

Joe is still on his ass, by the way. Stupid tinsel, what the fuck, it's _everywhere_. He tries to kick away the boxes trapping him, and triggers an avalanche of fucking sparkling Christmas decorations.

He kind of lies there for a little bit. This, Joe decides, is not his fault. He blames fucking John Norris and Pete Wentz.

Another clamor of people round the corner heading for the exit, loud and breathy and boozy and gossiping about someone's open bar tab. Joe starts to untangle himself. Someone from the crowd steps up to help.

"Ah, thanks, you have saved my life," he goes when the boxes are out of the way and gets tinsel off his head. He feels ridiculous and can't see right, light gleaming the wrong way and shadowy halls not doing him any good. His much smaller helper grabs both his hands and steadies him to step out of the mess. This is not Joe's favorite rockstar moment of the night.

The crowd has passed, and the person hasn't let go of his hands. "Hi Joe," she says.

Joe gulps and looks down. They're standing toe to toe. Rihanna's bangs are in her face, but he can see her well enough. She's beautiful. She smiles slowly, eyes crinkling up, and Joe can breathe again.

"Hi Rihanna," he starts, but there's already another look creeping across her face.

"So are you coming or what?" she says through a grin going devilish. Holy crap. Joe stomps down on nerves.

He stammers, "Um, yeah, definitely, sure-" and they're off, her pulling him one-handed back around to the exit and Joe following, thunderstruck and foot-stumbly.

***

"Wait, where are we going? I thought...?"

Rihanna kept throwing smiles over her shoulder all along, and he had stayed quiet in the cab ride because he was trying to figure out the humming squirmy sensation crawling through his legs and belly, and also, trying not to smile like an idiot as he kept wanting to do, which took up all of his attention, so he's confused at ending up back at the hotel. The afterparties were all, like, in the opposite direction.

She's still got his hand in the elevator (they've passed his floor, what?) and he's gone to clammy-nervous now. Rihanna looks up, twists her mouth and backs him up to the elevator wall.

She pushes right up on him and eyes his mouth, and okay, _wow_ , the squirming in his belly is recognizable now and drops straight to his groin. "I was thinking," she says, and tip-toes up, drops a line of kisses along his jaw.

Joe exhales slowly, shaky, "Um, yes. Okay." Everything comes sharply into focus and then the elevator dings, doors open. She pulls back beaming and leads him to door 2477 stamped in shiny curled letters.

***

Joe is enjoying himself. There's a lot to enjoy. Rihanna had kind of thrown him against the door once they were inside her room and kissed him dizzy. Joe is a big fan of kissing. Soft lips, tickling tongue, sharp teeth on his bottom lip. He had a hand in her hair and pulled a little, got a breathy groan, and decided there should be a lot more of that. They almost toppled over a faux bookcase when the shoes came off, tripped over a couple chairs when he peeled down her top. She didn't stop kissing him and Joe likes that. Mmm, kissing.

Right now Rihanna has him sort of pinned flat to her bed straddling his waist. Joe's cock is very happy with this situation. She's rocking lightly over him, and Joe, sucking on her neck, pulling up what's sure to be a marvelous hickey, Joe is definitely grinning.

Rihanna suddenly grinds down hard and Joe's head snaps back. "Nguh," he says. She grins at him, mouth wet, and pulls back to sit up heavy on his lap. Joe knows his eyes are rolling back and does not care. His pants need to go. Now.

Rihanna sighs and murmurs, "I want to try something." He gasps and blinks up. Even in the half-light he can see she's all tawny skin above the wait and black dress below coming undone. His hands creep up her waist and feels another grin forming.

"I am up for a lot of things," he says, and oh yes, lovely _breasts_. He sits up and shifts her higher on his lap so he can lick over her collarbones and suck her nipples. She squeaks and giggles, wraps her arms around him. He likes feeling her squirm, burst of hot sinking pressure on his cock and girlskin and shoulders and yes, her really lovely breasts. About the time he can feel her chest heaving, nosing the side of a breast, his vision is beginning to fuzz at the edges and he can hear how loud he's panting. He's at a tough angle, can't really breathe, and he's about the pop the button on his pants.

Rihanna groans throatily and bites his neck. "Fuck," he moans, runs his hands down her sides and lets her slip back so she's breathing against his mouth. He has to strip, _has to_ , but he can't seem to stop touching her.

Rihanna bites his lip, and his mouth falls open. She has her hands on his face and whispers, "Hey, let me?" and drags her hands down lifts the hem of his shirt. He groans unhappily but lets go of her long enough to lose his shirt, and hey, he can't seem to sit up any longer. His backbone must have melted, and his vision whites out momentarily from the change in position and all the blood running south. The world swims in to a naked Rihanna taking off his pants; the world is a wonderful place and Joe never wants to lose it again. Especially with Rihanna's hands on his cock. His eyesight, unfortunately, seems to be retreating again at the tug and pressure, harder then softer. Joe feels like he's melting through the bed.

"Hey, I want to try something," she breathes after a few minutes. Joe whines unmanfully. She says, "I want to fuck you."

"Fuck's sake, do whatever you want," he stutters out and nudges into her hand. She licks her lips and Joe jerks against her. Rihanna looks amazing crouched over his lap, and how did this happen so fast, for fucking real. She squeezes firmly at the base, surge of sensation, and okay, Joe's paying attention now.

"I want to fuck you. I have some _things_ ," she says. Joe stops pushing up and opens his eyes wide. Rihanna smiles sweetly, naked and sheen of sweat, but. He hasn't ever thought about. Wow. That's not.

"I, um? I dunno," he says. Her expression doesn't really change, but her hands on his cock stroke harder, and heat slams up his spine to choke him. He moans again and comes over his belly, braced tense on forearms, surprised.

Flat on his back and breathing hard, he's woozily smeared over the bed. He feels great, feels _spectacular_ , but Rihanna has disappeared again. Joe would get up, but he can't feel his legs very well yet.

Then the room floods with light, and Joe's eyes are watering. "Hey," Rihanna says, coming back apparently with a washcloth. He cleans himself up and gives a toothy smile, eyes her up and down. She laughs and lies down to kiss him again.

The kissing is. It's like. He doesn't even know, but she's a master at it. Soft and shallow, then deeper and wetter, coming around to tease again. His mouth feels swollen, messy, and he pulls off to breathe into her shoulder, slip a hand down between her legs.

She squeaks and slaps him away. Joe startles out of his kissing haze.

She leans in, speaks softly into his ear. "I want," she says, bites, "to fuck you."

It's possible that Joe is gaping. Or hearing things. He gushes out a breath, thinking sort of impeded by the girl on his lap. He licks his lips. He's not necessarily opposed to the idea, but it is kind of nerve-wracking. Since he's not. Hasn't. Before. Fingers, sure, prostate is a man's best friend, but. Um. "Um?" he offers. Rihanna stretches, her body lengthening along his, and Joe closes his mouth as it floods with saliva; he hasn't even gotten to taste her yet, and that's a serious crime. He could lick her all over, all night, and he leans into her neck to start.

But it doesn't seem to matter. Rihanna moves on to mouthing down his chest, fingering the muscles in his stomach, and oh yeah, he is good to go. "Don't you want me to," Joe begins, but Rihanna shakes her head once, _no_ , and licks down his cock instead. And he's, it's great, okay? Joe is all for this beautiful girl with a singer's mouth, fuck, going down on him. But.

But she's whimpering, more and more, and he's leaning on the headboard while she's crouched on her knees in front of him, and he can see her arm working below her waist, can tell she's definitely _fingering herself_ and he can _smell her_. She's touching herself and sucking him off. The muzzy pleasure is weighing him down, and he shivers.

"Please, hey, wait," he says. And he can't. He can't just _sit there_. He runs a hand over shoulder and back, and she just shrugs him off and sucks insistently. Joe feels disjointed, head disorganized. He _wants_. She shakes off the hand he slides towards her waist too. He wants to touch her, lick her, make her come, something. She's starting to undulate now, rolling her hips beyond his reach, and the need ratchets up a thousand notches. Joe's chest tightens up. "Wait, stop."

She pulls back just to suck on the head and blearily looks up at him from his lap. Hot pleasure sizzles along his spine, and he's starting to feel. Something. It's starting to _ache_ somewhere in him, that she won't let him touch her. It lasts, longer, and longer, drawing on and on, taut wire tension winding him up. Joe flushes and breaks out in uncomfortable sweat. Rihanna sighs out and blows air across his spit-wet cock, and the sensation jitters all the way to his scalp. He squirms, half-groans, and tries to pull her up to him. She sits back on her heels instead.

Okay, more unmanly whining is definitely ahead soon. He's hard and uncomfortable and it hurts and he's frustrated and he _wants_ her. "Please," Joe puffs on a breath.

Rihanna, she just. Looks at him a little bit. Then she takes his hand, squeezes it, and says clearly, "Joe? Will you let me fuck you?"

Joe's chest loosens up immediately and the breathe rattles out of him. He pulls her down to him, and Rihanna lets him run his hands along her arms, her back. She's _lovely_.

And tricky. She certainly drives a hard bargain. "Yes," he exhales, and she flashes a dazzling smile before kissing him.

"I'll make it good," she promises, and Joe may be slightly buzzed in a headrush. She clamors across his lap to reach into the nightstand, and Joe takes the opportunity to land kisses along her shoulders. Items in hand, she turns back to him. He looks down, just to see. The dildo is plain, functional, but the straps have glitter, blue glitter, on them.

Rihanna smirks at his inspection. Joe bucks a little, _because he has a wet hot Rihanna_ still in his lap. Who is going to fuck him. He gulps and actually see his dick jerk, and okay, okay, he's way more on board with this plan than he even thought he was.

"Turn on your hands," she says, soft. Her eyes are liquid, pupils dilated. Another wash of urges to get his tongue all over her pounds in his head. He gasps and turns over, knees wobbly already. He ignores the urges. Maybe later.

No, no, definitely later, and Joe thinks happy thoughts of camping in between her legs as she opens him up with one finger, two, because okay, this is sort of uncomfortable. Rihanna isn't in a hurry, though, and she's definitely done this before: slow nudges, small rubs, turning longer and rolling one into another. Joe can hear himself panting even through the slow pace, and Rihanna hisses in concentration. A little while longer and it gets even better, lazy rhythmic stretching with nowhere to go and Joe's eyes half-shut with rocking repetition. It's pretty fucking hot.

And he's pretty fucking hard. "Hey," he says. Rihanna "mmmms" at him and doesn't stop. "Hey," he gets out again, but he barely has any voice. "Oh fuck, please, get on with it," he complains and Rihanna groans. He hears something jangling, and ohfuck. She has to put on the harness. Of course she does. With blue glittery straps. Joe forces himself not to grab his dick. He tries to look back instead.

Rihanna laughs a little. "Get down," she mutters, pushing him forward into the pillows, and segues straight to fucking into him. Joe's head hits his forearms as he scrabbles them up for something to grab. Small short thrusts in, and his head is already pounding, because he has a girl fucking his ass. Joe is definitely, definitely whining and can't stop it. She tries a couple angles, slow and smooth, and Joe manages to grab the headboard, thank fuck, to move with her, get something to take his mind off his sadly neglected cock.

Then she grabs his hips, pulls him up, and slides easily along his prostate, just to hear him babble or make him scream probably. Joe doesn't know; his mind is three stories up in the sky while Rihanna rocks him into a groaning fit. She moans out words, phrases, making him spread more while Joe pushes back and forgets to breathe. He can't see. His hands are useless to his poor abandoned cock, pushing back onto Rihanna while precome drips onto the sheets.

Joe makes a giveaway noise, a jerk, something, because Rihanna leans forwards, bites into his back, and puts a hand on his dick, finally. She pulls long and hard, and Joe comes streaking his belly, his chest, the sheets.

He's facedown on the pillows and has cramps in his toes. Rihanna is beside him, dildo ripped off and sitting on her hip, has her fingers in her pussy and comes moaning and jerking. Joe doesn't have the strength to grumble about that again. She snuggles up to him right after, puts one arm around his neck and presses fingers to his mouth. Joe latches on and sucks her sticky wetness off.

His brain may qualify as alphabet soup right now. He mumbles something, mismatched gargle, who knows, around her fingers.

Rihanna huffs out a laugh and murmurs, "I heard you the first time. Don't worry about it. You can eat me out later."

 

***

The next day, Joe arrives late to Pete's suite for a day-after-awards interview with the band. He's sore, his back is bruised, and he's chafing. He's also been ordered to come back to room 2477 tonight. Joe feels fucking fantastic.

Pete is pouting into his breakfast spread at noon. "We live a rockstar life, man," Pete says. He picks blueberries out of his muffin. Patrick snores face-down on Pete's bed wearing yesterday's clothes.

Andy shuffles in. He's got claw marks on his neck. Joe meets his eyes and Andy kind of looks wary and then looks away. Andy winces as he curls into a chair. Pete doesn't notice.

"Yeah, pretty much," Joe says, and helps himself to a bagel.


End file.
